


Burn Fetish

by lemoninagin



Category: Durarara!!
Genre: Angst, M/M, Pining, Post-Break Up, consider yourself forewarned this does not have a happy ending, cryzaya
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-24
Updated: 2016-07-24
Packaged: 2018-07-26 13:29:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7575772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemoninagin/pseuds/lemoninagin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was never a joke, never a real tease. Izaya just wanted Shizuo to know he was always breathtakingly beautiful at every moment in time. But here Izaya was now, a truly pathetic fool, because he never made it a point to actually voice such a thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burn Fetish

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this came from the song [“Burn Fetish” by Eyedea & Abilities](http://genius.com/Eyedea-and-abilities-burn-fetish-lyrics), which inspired me to continue writing this due to the relatable lyrics. Please feel free to listen to the song while reading this for added pain, as I meant it to be taken from Izaya’s POV :)

_ Izaya likes to watch Shizuo sleep. _

 

“Is this everything?”

 

“Yes, that's all of it, Shizu-chan...”

 

_ He likes to watch the slow rise and fall of Shizuo's chest, the slight parting of his lips when his even breathing deepens, the way a sleepy grunt escapes his mouth from time to time in a sudden bout of restless dreaming. Sometimes he'll flail a limb or two when the dream turns to what appears to be a nightmare, and a smile curves up Izaya's face as he dodges the brute's attacks even in sleep, eyes full of adoration while he places a reassuring hand to the small of Shizuo's back and rubs it in soothing circles until Shizuo calms, body sinking lax beneath his fingers. _

 

Shizuo turns away from the box of his belongings and Izaya's watchful gaze, scratching the back of his neck as anxiety trills up his spine. He doesn't like the way Izaya's eyes looked when he handed over his things, that one physical gesture to truly symbolize the finality of it all. There's a hint of despair cracking through a thinly veiled mask that only adds to the weariness of his thin face, gaunt and paler than usual.

 

It doesn't suit him at all, Shizuo thinks, all hints of mischievousness gone and replaced with a serious melancholy that seems all wrong being etched on his pretty features.

 

_ Izaya murmurs 'I love you' in Shizuo's ear when he's sure he's fully unconscious, words he has trouble saying aloud. But sleeping Shizuo seems softer and gentler, much easier to talk to, like the old friend he's always wanted but never had. And when he whispers those words, Shizuo always sleepily replies with a breathy 'Me too' and Izaya's heart picks up speed, his body warming in a way that's unfamiliar as he curls himself into Shizuo's back, presses a small kiss to the nape of his neck. _

 

“Thanks. I...”

 

Izaya perks up at Shizuo's pause, cocking his head in interest, but Shizuo merely sighs as he faces him again.

 

“...I'll bring the rest of your things over later. I still haven't had time to sort through it all,” he mutters firmly, and the cold fills Izaya again, that shudder of frost he can't ever seem to shake. If Shizuo notices the twitch of his fingers gripping harder at the end of his coat, he's at least polite enough not to say anything.

 

Izaya _ liked _ to watch Shizuo sleep.

 

With a curt nod and bow of his shoulders, Izaya turns and quickly leaves without another word, and Shizuo falters for that split second, unsure if he should continue the chase.

 

Instead his feet are glued to the wooden floor, his ankles sinking in further with the added weight of the thought that the chase is over forever and there's nothing else that can be done and there's nothing else but this – Shizuo with his arm outstretched to a door that's been closed and barred off from him many more times than he cares to recall or count.

 

_ But now, all Izaya has is his empty bed - a mattress seeping with regret and pillows lingering loneliness that really has never had anything to do with losing Shizuo, but everything to do with how broken he's always been.  _

 

It's so cold, so suddenly large, that Izaya's taken to sleeping on his couch most nights – well, most nights that he can even manage to fall into a fitful sleep, often too on edge and spending his time aimlessly browsing forums and fooling around in chatrooms as a distraction for the deep unrest he feels within him.

 

And when he can't bring himself to stop his thoughts from racing about what could have, should have been, with a huff and a resigned sigh, he'll push himself away from the desk, open the drawer he's told himself to stay away from, and pull out the offending garment from within. When he hugs it to his chest and stares out the large window behind him, it almost seems like everything will be alright.

 

_ Almost. _

 

Tonight is no different, especially after seeing Shizuo's face for the first time in weeks, and as soon as Izaya unlocks his door, lets it slam behind him and enters his too-quiet apartment, he's practically racing to open that drawer.

 

Held up to his face like one would hold a fragile, prized possession, is an old, white button up shirt that's so worn it's thinned and velvety smooth on his aching palm – and now that it's beneath his shaking fingertips he wants to cry. 

 

With a large inhale of the scent that's starting to fade and morph more into his own foul essence, he fails at choking back the sob that tumbles out. It all comes crashing down, a built up crescendo of things he never wanted to feel. Stroking the collar, he imagines the person who should be inside it – who should be there to pat him on the head and brush his sweaty hair from his face and whisper that it will be okay, even if it doesn't feel like it.

 

While the tears flow silently down his face, his quivering fingers move to unclasp the buttons, and before he can stop himself he's stripping his own shirt off so he can be wrapped in the fading memory of what it was like to be truly loved – of what it was like to be accepted by someone as amazing as Shizuo.

 

Wringing the material up at the hem, he feels weaker than ever. He told himself he wouldn’t do this, but as soon as it’s draped over him, Izaya cracks much like the way a terracotta pot does under too much pressure. Which is fine, because as far as he’s concerned, he might as well be a cog of a part that only belongs underground in the Earth, away from the surface of the prying eyes of his humans and the memories of a man who used to gaze at him with a gentleness he surely never deserved.

 

Sniffling, Izaya thinks about what they used to do on slow, late nights like this, how they used to tumble over the sheets in a fight far different than the ones they had in the streets of the city. He thinks about the curves of Shizuo’s face when it was below him and they clambered together in the throes of passion, thinks about how Shizuo used to wrinkle his nose in this cute way and shutter breathy gasps when he would come, Izaya’s name a choked prayer leaking from his widely parted lips. 

 

Sometimes he told Shizuo about it playfully afterwards, would mention that he looked so wonderfully unguarded when that moment hit him - and maybe Shizuo would get self-concious and moody and tell him to shut the fuck up with a flush on his face. Izaya would laugh then, run his fingers through Shizuo’s hair to placate him, and all would seem well and done as Shizuo pushed into the touch. He’d turn around usually after that, bashfully mumble something frighteningly romantic, and kiss Izaya in that way that made the hairs at the nape of his neck stand.

 

It was never a joke, never a real tease. Izaya just wanted Shizuo to know he was always breathtakingly beautiful at every moment in time. But here Izaya was now, a truly pathetic fool, because he never made it a point to actually voice such a thing.

 

It isn’t so much about regret as it is about penance, though none of this is being done out of a hope for redemption or as a way around it all. For once, Izaya doesn’t have a plan B. There’s no way to use a schism when the walls have already been divided. It’s his only tool of power - divide and conquer, has been for forever. Well, he thinks, for sure he’s achieved  _ something _ here, but it sure as hell was never the result he was pushing for.

 

The push and pull, the wax and wane of dealing with a monster’s emotions, is a tumultuous, fickle thing. None of that matters in this game, however. He should have never let himself develop the dangerous desire to enjoy that burn that scorched him afterwards.

 

Izaya pulls himself up wearily, sluggishly drags his feet towards the living room. The gong of a clock strikes the time, the sound of cars racing around in the distance outside faintly echoes through the empty apartment, the whir of the air conditioner comes on. Life goes on, the world keeps turning, and Orihara Izaya is a lone, stagnant figure, lost in the night.

 

No matter what, his true downfall is that he’ll never give up the comforting warmth that comes from the fire.

 

Izaya flops carelessly onto the couch with the last remnants of cold wetness drying on his cheeks, curls into a ball with his face pressed into the damp fabric of the shirt. 

 

It always starts and ends like this - inhale, exhale, land into unconsciousness.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is a drabble I started writing a very long time ago, and I was in a bit of a mood, so I finally finished it. Sorry for breaking hearts, folks. Sometimes you’ve got to burn down the night to see the breaking of dawn.


End file.
